Put on Your Red Dress Mama
by Summer Reign
Summary: Grissom, Sara, a convention, a ball…all leading up to Dancing with the Geeks! A new CBS series, coming to a television set near you! I promise, this is a vacation from angst.


Title: Put on Your Red Dress, Mama

Author: Summer Reign

Rating: T

Spoilers: Season 5

Disclaimer: Oh, it's not mine. And it's not even something they'd write so…leave me, and my vast fortune of copper pennies in a jug, alone.

Summary: Grissom, Sara, a convention, a ball…all leading up to Dancing with the Geeks! (A new CBS series, coming to a television set near you!) I promise, this is a vacation from angst.

A/N: In a fandom far, far away, I once took on a 'guilty pleasures' challenge: stories you love to read even though they are totally unrealistic, given the characters and their personalities.

But, of course, me being me, I couldn't stick to just one genre of guilty pleasure. Apparently, the same holds true for CSI-fic.

XXXXX

She blamed it all on that weasel, Conrad Ecklie.

For months, he had tried to get Las Vegas selected as host lab for the First Annual CSI convention. Since no one did ass kissing with quite as much skill, he managed to pull it off, which made him the new golden boy in town. And a whole lot of people, with more power than prestige, were now golden boys by association.

And they were all prancing around like peacocks.

The funny thing was, the convention itself wasn't half-bad. There were the usual meet and greets throughout the week, lab tours that seemed to be running non-stop, and lectures that were hosted by prominent investigators from around the country. Of course, the members of the Las Vegas lab were well represented in the presentations. Grissom lectured, as did Catherine, Warrick…and Nick.

Sara wasn't included in the invitations to present. Never one to let go of a good grudge, Ecklie made sure of that. It wouldn't do to spotlight someone he dearly wanted to sack.

It was just as well. Sara had no desire to do it, although it would have been nice to be asked.

Still, she loved her job and participated as enthusiastically as her schedule would allow. She sat through as many lectures as she could during the weeklong event and made sure to make time for all three of Grissom's. He probably didn't have a clue, since she sat in the back of the crowded ballroom turned lecture hall. It didn't matter. She liked him in teaching-mode. He was precise, enthusiastic and…funny, in his own way. And when it came to knowing his stuff, he was unrivaled.

It was an odd little diversion, breaking up their odd everyday existence. But it was suddenly almost over, all too soon. And that's when her bout of temporary insanity hit.

Thanks to Ecklie, she had been invisible that week. Not only had she not been asked to present, in spite of being published in two prestigious forensic magazines that year, she was also not asked to guide any of the lab tours. Or demonstrate the state-of-the-art equipment she knew how to operate in her sleep. She wasn't even asked to hand out shrimp puffs at the damned farewell ball.

So when it was time to dress for said ball, she went a little crazy. Since attendance was mandatory, for everyone but the members of the swing shift (who would be covering for them), she decided to go all out and force people to remember she existed.

She knew the locals would be wearing black. That was a given for everyone, except perhaps, Sofia, who liked to go out on a limb in white. The out-of-towners would be dressed the way they _thought_ people in Vegas dressed. So, when Sara saw the sleek knee-length red chiffon dress, with spaghetti straps and a flared skirt, she thought it was just enough to make her presence known.

She was right about the dress. When she walked into the ballroom, she was the only one she could see wearing red. And she wasn't that far off in her expectations of other women's clothing choices. Catherine wore black, Sofia wore white, and the nation's sequin supply had been depleted, judging by the out-of-towners in their Vegas-wear. Sara smiled at the accuracy of her deductive reasoning.

And then she stopped thinking of anything but the vision that appeared in front of her eyes. Grissom was in a tux.

No…_**GRISSOM**_ was in a _**TUX**_!!!

The world definitely stood still.

He went from an entomologist who could (and once did) swap clothes with a bag person, to a front runner for the new James Bond. All accomplished by donning this lovely, formal, figure-flattering garment.

Number one on her new mental to-do list:

Sneak into Grissom's townhouse and burn everything but the tux.

She didn't think he saw her. But she watched his every move as he took a glass of champagne, downed it in two gulps and approached the NY contingent and asked one of the head honchos, a redhead in her fifties, to dance.

It was a fairly slow dance and Sara watched, in fascination, as Grissom did a rather nice, non-flashy foxtrot. Well, she supposed it was a foxtrot. She'd never actually admit to renting a few dance films in preparation for the possibility he might not be able to avoid asking the ladies of the lab to dance at least once during the evening. After all, he was one of the "hosts," even if it wasn't a voluntary role.

After the redhead, came a blond. Then another, and another, and a brunette, and another redhead.

Other than a small break—or two--to snag another glass of the freely flowing champagne, Grissom was performing his hosting duties admirably. Maybe he was ready to play politics, after all.

During this time, Sara was experiencing the Power of the Dress. All the menfolk of the lab had something to say when they first saw her. But that's when she felt foolish. Warrick made a comment on the hot legs she was hiding, Nick asked her where her combat boots were and Greg…well, Greg asked if she'd have his babies. She should have been flattered but all it did was remind her how out of character this all was for her. She wasn't some femme fatale. She was just a femme fatale wanna-be. And people weren't even buying the act. Damn Ecklie for 'forcing' her to buy the dress.

The guys all asked her to dance during the first hour or so. And she turned each one down.

The truth was, she didn't really know how. The videos were no help at all. The only reason she'd actually be willing to do it with Grissom (in a matter of speaking, of course) was for the opportunity to be close to him, on a physical level. It might very well be a literal once-in-a-lifetime experience.

So, she sat and pretended to watch everyone else dance, but her main focus was on Grissom, across the room, cutting a rug with everyone she supposed he had been "assigned" to dance with. Ecklie, the Sheriff, and the Under Sheriff seemed to gravitate toward the rest of the female big wigs. No woman, in any position of power, would be leaving the place feeling neglected. It was kind of sweet, in a smarmy sort of way.

Finally, Grissom came over to their table. He glanced at Sara, took one of the water glasses from the table, downed it quickly and asked Catherine to dance.

At last, he was taking one for the Home Team. And she was on the bench, waiting. (She'd been reading Baseball for Dummies in her spare time. Because…well, she heard rumors it was a beautiful game).

Sara watched Catherine laughing as Grissom twirled her around. They had an old-married couple's rapport, but Sara had never been jealous of her. She couldn't even explain why. She was actually just relieved to see the two of them out there, having fun, for a change.

The song ended, and another slow one began. There would be no break-dancing going on with this crowd, that was for sure. Grissom turned back to their table. He looked at Sara briefly, visibly took a deep breath and headed over to where she sat. She tried to look both nonchalant and receptive at the same time, a small smile crossing her face and her eyes lighting up with interest and hope. And then…

He passed her by.

"Sofia," he said, "May I have this dance?"

"I'd love to," came a disembodied voice from behind her. She'd recognize that odd accent anywhere.

Sara didn't need a mirror to know own her face was as crimson as her dress.

XXXXX

"Come on," Nick said, grabbing her upper arm and pulling her to her feet. "I'm not taking no for an answer."

She followed him to the dance floor and stood there, looking at him. Nick definitely looked pissed. Very pissed.

Damn, he was a good friend sometimes.

"Nick, I don't know how to dance."

"So? You can step on my feet just as easily as Grissom's. And I won't even mind, since you left the combat boots home."

"Yeah, but…"

"But, nothing." He grabbed her hands and put them on his shoulders. "Just hang on, honey. We're goin' for a ride." He put his hands on her waist and spun her around so hard and fast that she couldn't help but hold on for dear life, and giggle like a schoolgirl, in spite of herself.

He smiled and looked down at her, "There. That's better."

"You didn't have to come to my rescue, you know. Actually, I was ready to go home. I've done my time here."

"Well, you can go after a dance or two. I want you to have some fun this evening."

"Yeah, but…"

"Yeah, but nothing. I told you. I've seen you with fire and brimstone in your eyes when one of us is in trouble. The 'castrate a guy with a butter knife and enjoy it' look. So, we can return the favor once in a while and you can just accept it. Okay?"

She nodded. "Thanks."

"Hey, thank _you_. Every guy in the place wants to dance with the Lady in Red. I'm the one that got to do it. My reputation has just gone up 100 points."

Sara laughed softly and rested her head against Nick's shoulder, shuffling her feet when it seemed necessary. Out of the corner of her eye, she looked for Grissom and found him, staring straight at her. When he realized Sara caught him looking, his gaze quickly returned to his blond subordinate, who was in full clinging vine mode as they tripped the light fantastic.

After the slower dance ended, and Nick forced her to allow her body to be flung around during a quicker number, she laughingly thanked him and went back to the table to get her evening bag and wrap. She had enough of this night and might as well end it on as high a note as was possible, under the circumstances. Sara had enough of expectations that didn't pan out, and enough of pretending that the Cinderella myth was alive and well and being played out in Vegas.

She wanted nothing more than a very long bubble bath, an even longer nap, and the opportunity to don her 'combat boots' and go back to work for shift that night.

XXXXX

She said her good-byes to everyone at the table (Sofia and Grissom being notably absent) and then went out through the ballroom door. Before she could take more than three steps, a hand reached out and grabbed her upper arm.

"Nicky, I'm going to be black and blue…" she said, before turning and finding herself staring into the very blue eyes of Bond, James Bo…Grissom.

A small frown quickly crossed his face and then he started leading her away from the ballroom. But instead of proceeding out of the hotel, he turned toward the corridor.

"Gris? What's wrong? Is there a dead body somewhere? A case?"

"No. Just…come with me."

He never let go of her arm as he continued to lead her down the hallway, turned left and then went through two French doors that led to an outside terrace that ran the entire length of that side of the hotel. Each ballroom had access to it, since it was primarily used as a smoking area. A few people who wanted to escape the crowds were there, too.

"What are we doing here?" she asked.

"We're crashing another party," he said.

"We're what?"

"The Fitzsimmons' wedding. They are an older couple--second marriage for both--with huge families. I met Mr. Fitzsimmons in the men's room before. He told me to drop by, and technically, if anyone comes out on the veranda, I've dropped."

"Okay," she said, still not getting it. "But, why me?"

"Because you owe me a dance."

Well, that broke the spell. Even if he looked better than anything she had seen in a long time…he still was leaping to a very huge conclusion, thinking she wanted to dance with him. And, even if it happened to be true, she didn't have to make everything easy for him.

"I thought only attendance was mandatory. And I also thought I did my time and could go now."

"Well, you were wrong. Dance with me, Sara," he said, his voice taking on that gentle quality she loved.

"You didn't ask me…in there. When you asked everyone else."

"That was intentional."

"Why? Are you ashamed of dancing with me?"

"No. But, I _had_ to dance with everyone else. I _want_ to dance with you. And I'd prefer to do it without an audience."

Again, o-kay.

"I…need to rest before shift," she said, suddenly feeling very self-conscious about her lack of talent in that area.

"We don't have to be in until 4 AM. Swing's covering for us. Besides, I know where Greg hides his coffee."

"So do I. But, how am I supposed…" Her thought was cut off when he put his finger on her lips. He then made an odd sort of gesture with his other hand and a waiter, bearing a tray of champagne, seemed to magically appear.

Maybe he was James Bond. Although…then the tray would contain martinis. Shaken, not stirred.

Grissom took two flutes and gave one to her. He downed his, again, in two gulps. She took a small sip. It was actually only her second glass of the evening.

Grissom looked at the wedding reception through the open door of the smaller ballroom. Soft, romantic music, definitely of the "lite" variety filtered out onto the terrace. "Do you want to dance in there? I really was invited. Sort of."

"No, it's fine here."

"Aha—so you will dance with me," he said, taking the glass from her hand, drinking the contents and then pulling her into his arms before she could protest. She had her hands out in front of her and wasn't exactly sure which dance he would choose, and where she needed to put them. "Do what you did with Nick," he whispered, taking her hands in his and placing them against his shoulders.

She felt him slide both of his hands to the middle of her back. Then, without warning, he dipped her backwards, until they were in a position she had previously only seen in very old movies. Sara let out a very uncharacteristic yelp and then was holding on for dear life, while his face hovered over hers. He smirked. Self-satisfied and totally cocky, he then lifted them both to a standing position, as he slowly began to move with her across the floor of the terrace.

"Have you ever been dipped before?" he asked.

"Uh, no."

"Good. I'm your first, then," he said, with an even bigger smirk on his face.

Okay. This was going…strangely.

Sara allowed Grissom to move her around a bit, and then relaxed enough to rest her head against _his _shoulder. Things felt different than they did when she was dancing with Nicky. Nicky had been a port in a storm, safe, no pressure. This felt more like…well, she didn't even have a proper weather reference for this feeling. It was bordering on something seismic. His tux was smooth under her fingers. She stretched them out a bit and touched the very ends of his hair as it brushed the collar of his crisp, white shirt. The curls were much softer than she expected.

And he was wearing after-shave. And not the bad stuff, either. She breathed deeply, then told herself to get a grip.

"What happened to Sofia?" she asked, and then mentally kicked herself.

He pulled her closer. "I don't know. I don't care. Do you care?"

"No. I just wondered."

"You must be hungry," he said, suddenly, pulling back and looking at her. She had a sudden urge to look in the mirror. She knew she was thin, but was she that thin that he'd run out to get her a sandwich in the middle of a semi-romantic moment?

He let her go and gestured to a small table. "I'm gonna be right back."

"You're stealing these people's reception food?" she asked and he frowned. She could see the wheels turning, while he thought of an alternative plan. It was one of her great enjoyments in life, watching him think.

"No. We're going back to the part of the terrace that belongs to our reception. I'll be stealing Las Vegas Crime lab food, okay? It's all legal and above board." He narrowed his eyes a bit. "I bet you were a hall monitor." Before she could answer, he grabbed her hand and started walking past the Fitzsimmons ballroom, and slightly past the CSI ballroom. They could see inside, but the people inside would really have to be looking at a particular angle to see them. There were a few more tables here, as well, but even less people milling around than there had been outside the wedding reception. And, luckily, Grissom and Sara didn't seem to know any of them.

He gestured to a table for two. "You sit here, I'll be right back. Sara?"

"I'll sit here."

Sara sat, focusing on the neon-infused view. In a few minutes, she turned her attention to the windowed wall of the CSI ballroom and saw Grissom maneuvering between tables with two flutes of champagne in one hand, and a plate in another.

He did look dapper. That was a good word. Dapper. And he acted—like the Grissom she knew many, many years ago. Maybe the tuxedo came with a time machine.

He came back out and deposited his treasures in front of her.

"Champagne, and…well, I figured you probably had enough real food and might like dessert," he gestured to the plate of chocolate covered strawberries in front of her.

"They look…really good," she said, picking up her champagne flute. He shook his head and took the glass from her fingers.

"You have to try it this way, at least once," he said, as he took a strawberry and dipped it in the champagne, then held it to her lips.

Okay. That was it. This wasn't even the Grissom of Old. This was a completely different person. This was….Warrick. "Grissom, what's going on?"

"I'm feeding you fruit," he stated, matter-of-factly. Okay. That was more like Grissom.

"I can see that. Why?"

"Why not?"

This interrogation was going well. Maybe…no. It couldn't be. Well, now she had to ask. Just to make sure he was straight on this matter. "Are you using reverse psychology on me?"

He frowned. "I…don't think so."

"Because, you know, it doesn't work. Not even in sitcoms. If you show interest in me, suddenly—out of the blue—_I'm_ **not** going to run."

He looked at her with a totally blank expression, and then realization dawned, as a slow smile spread across his face. "That's good to know." He double-dipped the strawberry and held it to her lips. "Fruit?"

She tried to take the strawberry from his fingers, but he just shook his head and wouldn't let go. She gave up and carefully bit into the strawberry, making sure not to get either chocolate crumbles or juice on her dress. Grissom smiled, dipped the remaining half of the strawberry back in her champagne and then ate it.

He looked down at the champagne. "I guess I shouldn't have done that, once you bit into it."

He lifted up the flute and drank down the contents before she could remind him he had actually just introduced her own germs to her own drink—one that she had never actually taken a sip out of.

He brought his own champagne flute out and got ready to dip again.

"Gris—maybe later, okay? I'm just not hungry."

He looked at her. "Okay."

He polished off his own champagne, and took her hand, leading her to the side of the terrace and getting into dance position again.

She sighed and put her hands on his shoulders. He did smell good. And his eyes were so, so blue. Bluer than she had ever seen before. Of course, part of the reason was contrast. His cheeks were so, so red. They almost matched her super-dress. After a few seconds, she realized he was staring at her just as intently as she was staring at him.

"Are you trying to seduce me, Sara Sidle?" he asked, and she heard it. The soft "sh" sound instead of the flat S. The man was drunk. He had done an admirable job of hiding it until the last two belts of the bubbly.

She should have been angry, or hurt that he'd need liquid courage to even dance with her, but she just found it all rather endearing. The man looked like a slightly older male model, had women panting over him all night long, and still needed to "tank up" to get up the nerve to do what most guys could since they were in junior high.

No, scratch that. He didn't need to tank up for everyone. Well, not tank up as much. That was reserved for her. She was actually…flattered. Or delusional. She chose to go with flattered.

"Are you feeling some sort of sparks flying, Dr. Grissom?" she teased.

He pulled her closer. "Oh, yeah."

She laughed. "Well, I better get an extinguisher ready because if someone lights a flame around you, I have a feeling I might be proving that whole spontaneous human combustion theory. You're really…highly flammable, Gris."

"What?"

"Drunk. You're drunk."

"So?" He said, going on the defensive."What does that mean? You won't kiss me with alcohol on my breath?"

"Kiss you? We're just dancing here."

"I think I want a kiss," he said, appearing to literally be in thinking mode.

"Well, call me when you're sure. In the meantime," she said, reluctantly sliding her hands down the arms of his tux and back to her sides. "We should get some coffee in you and call a cab."

He grabbed her hands and brought them back up to his shoulders. "Kiss me, Sara."

"No. You're drunk."

"Kiss me."

"So you can deny it ever happened tomorrow? Or conveniently forget? Or blame me for taking advantage of you? No."

"In vino veritas. I won't deny it ever happened. And I won't forget or blame you. I might blame myself. I probably will blame myself—but, look at it this way, I do that anyway. So, you could at least give me a logical reason for doing so."

Sara smiled to herself and shook her head. He was a doofy drunk. A loveable drunk. A loveable man.

"Let's just dance a little, okay?" she suggested.

He nodded, "Okay. We'll work up to the kissing," he said, and pulled her close, moving his cheek to rest against her own and wrapping his arms tightly around her waist.

Sara liked this dancing business. And the steps were surprisingly easy for this one. She only had to sway a bit, which had distinct advantages since it brought her body flush against Grissom's, where she encountered…evidence… that he wasn't entirely indifferent to her.

"The dress was worth every penny," she muttered to herself.

"What?" he murmured in her ear.

"Nothing. I was just saying that this dress was worth the money. You finally noticed I was alive."

He pulled away and looked down at her dress. "It's a beautiful dress. You look beautiful in it. And out of it."

She laughed and, after a second, he realized what he said and laughed with her. He was being honest. Forthright. But he didn't seem floored by her outfit, itself.

"It really is the booze, then, isn't it?" she asked, disappointed somehow.

"No," he said, sounding surprisingly sober for a moment. "The booze…is for my benefit. I realized this morning that I was really looking forward to tonight. Because I could dance with you. You could have worn your usual jeans and I'd still want to. And I could, because this is a break from real life. We don't host conventions everyday. We don't go to balls. Right? So, if that's what it is, why shouldn't it be a fantasy day, then?" He smiled and shook his head at his own rambling logic. "Well, **that** part is probably the champagne talking. If I had scotch, I'd be sitting in a corner somewhere being morbid, instead of being this…perky. But, remember, in vino veritas."

"You said that already. In wine, truth. But, what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, I looked up at my first lecture on Tuesday and saw you in the back of the room. And then I saw you there Wednesday and Friday. You were trying so hard to not let me see you. You just wanted to be there, didn't you? Sara, you've settled for so much less than you can have. And it's not like I can promise you anything more. But I can tell you that...I notice. And I care. Can't I? Just this once? And even if I'm inebriated, that doesn't mean I don't mean every word."

She looked at him and sighed. How could she not give him—herself—them—this one moment? She slid her hands back to his neck and leaned forward just that little bit until her lips softly brushed his. She smiled slightly against his soft mouth, then moved her face away from his.

And, in a move rivaling his dip, he pushed her back against the wall and initiated his own kiss. Gil Grissom: staid bugman, all hands, tongue and scratchy beard, hot and heavy against the wall. His big hands slid all around her semi-bare back. It was the stuff that dreams were made of. Dreams just bordering on nightmares, because every big wig in Vegas was right on the other side of the wall and any of them could be looking out at any moment. She put her hand to the middle of his chest and pushed. She kept holding her hand there as he tried to move in again.

"Stop that. There are people inside who would fire you in a heartbeat for this. I'm going to call you a cab," she said, noticing his ruddier than ever complexion, the brightness in his eyes.

"Take me home, Sara. You can drive," Giddy Grissom was back and reaching for her waist again.

"No, I can't. I came in a cab because I never imagined I'd have a pinch drinker. I'm going to call a cab myself."

"We can share!"

"I don't think so."

"Why? You afraid I might seduce you, Sara Sidle?"

"Yes, Gil Grissom. That's exactly what I'm afraid of," she said. And it was the truth. He may be able to deal with a kiss and a grope, and a couple (of hundred) words regarding their relationship, but anything more would probably have him boarding the first plane to Guam.

"Good," he said, seeming to take pride in his own studdliness. Then he frowned, realizing he wasn't going to 'get any' tonight. "Or bad. I haven't figured it out yet."

She took his hand and started leading him down the terrace, past the Crime Lab ball, past the Fitzsimmon's wedding and back to the lobby.

She walked him back outside to the front of the hotel and asked the doorman to get them separate cabs. As one pulled up, she opened the door and gestured to Grissom.

"Your chariot awaits, sir."

He hesitated as he stood before her. No teasing smile, no fully-drunk or even semi-drunk revelry. Just a serious, loving look on his face and tenderness in his eyes.

"I'm not going to ask you out tomorrow. Or the next day, or probably the next month. Maybe never," he said, his velvety voice making it sound like the most romantic sentiment on earth.

"I know," she said.

"I hope not never."

"Me, too."

"One more?" he asked, hope in his eyes.

She nodded and stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her, then leaned down and kissed her tenderly. For thirty seconds or so, she felt utterly surrounded by love. Another thing she thought only happened in movies.

He broke away and got in the cab. In a moment he was gone and her cab arrived.

"Time to go home, Cinderella," she said to herself and stepped into her own personal pumpkin for one.

XXXXX

She could see him hurting at shift that evening. A massive headache was obviously in full swing and he kept himself out of the field. She had worked a few small cases during the night. The criminal element of the town must have been recovering from hangovers, too. Perhaps they all attended the ball…or the Fitzsimmons' wedding.

Sara hadn't had enough to drink for it to effect her in any way, but she did wonder if she had imagined the whole, fairy-tale evening. There were parts of it that were definitely surreal.

A dashing Gil Grissom, dancing, strawberries, the taste of his mouth, the feel of his hands, the hard ridge of his…

Uh, yeah. It had been surreal.

Especially since there he was, baggy clothes in place, ignoring her, while occasionally rubbing his forehead and looking a little worse for wear.

Ah, well. She didn't particularly want to come off of her high from last night, so she'd just go on home after the shift and spend the day dreaming of it again before it faded to a very distant memory.

"Sara," his voice stopped her as she was heading toward the locker room. Maybe that memory would become distant a little quicker than she anticipated.

"Yes?" she said, turning back to him.

"Everything went okay tonight?"

"Yes. I…uh, I'll hand in my reports at the beginning of tonight's shift. They're done but the printer is broken."

"Fine."

"Great. Then, uh…good night," she said and walked down the hall.

"Sara?" he called to her again, and she came back, ready to let him have it if he messed with her memories.

"You're not going to apologize, are you? Because that would really…" she started.

"No. You know that Latin phrase I kept repeating yesterday?"

"I remember."

"Good. That's good. I just wanted to let you know, so do I."

"No regrets?"

He smiled, looked her in the eye and shook his head. She felt someone's presence coming up behind her and Grissom looked over her head.

"Good morning, Conrad," he said.

Sara rolled her eyes at Grissom and then turned to Ecklie.

"I just wanted to compliment you on the convention," Grissom said.

"Really?" Ecklie asked, smirking, not believing a word.

"Yes, really," Grissom said, seriously. "It was informative and highly satisfying."

"Well, thank you," he said, finally looking as if he believed what Grissom was telling him. He turned his attention to Sara. "And, you, Sidle? Anything you would **add** to the convention? If we were to host it another year? Something you think was **missing** this year?"

Sara looked the six-foot weasel in the eye and told him the truth. "I wouldn't change a thing, Ecklie. It was perfect."

She walked away, leaving behind an overgrown rodent standing with his mouth wide open in surprise, and a hung-over entomologist, who had to be feeling better by the second.

Her work here was done.

The End.

A/N:

OK-guilty fic pleasures for CSI:

I love fics with balls—uh, huge parties. I have no idea why since I don't like reception-like things on a personal level…but there you have it.

I love dressed up geek fics. Love them. Especially if tuxedos and the color red are involved.

Love dancing fic.

Love, love, love Drunken Grissom fic.

And I love first kiss fic.

And I adore fluff.

So, there you have it. If I could have found a way to stick in a game of Truth or Dare, believe me, I would have.

Uh, if I've inspired you to write your own guilty pleasure fic, that would be nifty! This waiting for season 8 thing is a bitch.


End file.
